


(If You Stay) Baby, Stay With Me

by screaminghere



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, Character Study, Cold War, Historical References, Homophobic Language, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 07:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screaminghere/pseuds/screaminghere
Summary: Love, love, love, definitely not Alfred’s area of expertise.





	(If You Stay) Baby, Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

> song 1: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9q56b93fug  
> song 2: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7LvdCywt60  
> song 3: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v78PSm1R7bg

Alfred takes one last drag then snuffs his cigarette out. The night air is cold and the ground is damp, what else could he expect from England?

“That’s a nasty habit.”

“What do you want?”

“Now don’t get all pissy. You joined this war late. You never saw what I saw, felt what I felt. My people-“

“Blah blah blah, horrors, suffering, I know.” 

“Why, you-“

“Don’t start,” Alfred snaps. “You’re going to live to regret this. This is the worst thing you can do to a country. You’re putting him under your boot and expecting him to stay there.”

There’s silence for a small moment.

“He deserves it.” Words have rarely been spoken with such anger. Alfred sighs and nearly laughs.

“There’s no good or bad side here, I know that it’s hard when you’ve suffered, but imagine his people too. He didn’t even start the war, that was Iv-“

“Ivan did not kill millions of my people, or the archduke.”

“Ludwig didn’t kill the archduke-“

“And yet my people still ended up getting bombed by him, the one and only! Women! Children! Entire houses! In bits!” Arthur lowers his voice. “The only thing that kept the men going was pure bloody faith in their God.”

“There’ll be no God for the men when Germany rains down its hellfire for the carnage you fucking Europeans call a treaty.”

“What do you know of war and treaties, boy?”

Alfred boils over. “I know what happens when you push someone-!“ Alfred swallows and composes himself, frustrated at how easily his temper runs away from him. “When you push someone too hard.” Alfred feels like a child and he hates it.

Arthur’s face makes an undefinable expression that can just as quickly be defined as apathetic. 

“Very well. As it is, you no longer need to concern yourself with our matters. I’ve arranged you a passage home.”

Alfred snorts: what an ass. “Thanks for the telegram. See ya when Germany revolts.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, tension dissolving into annoyance. “Fuck you.”

Alfred turns away, a sarcastic two-finger-salute at the ready, then Arthur steps towards him.

“Thank you.”

Alfred stares.

“This wasn’t your war to fight, I know that, and… thank you.” Arthur looks up at him, his expression some sort of way that can’t be described in words, his arms crossed.

Alfred chokes. “Yeah, no problem.”

There may or may not be a smile on Arthur’s face, it’s too minute to tell. But then he opens his mouth again.

“Want me to say goodbye to Ivan for you?”

Alfred’s blood goes cold, his body stiff. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Arthur looks surprised. He definitely hadn’t expected that reaction. Alfred kicks himself, ever the dumbass. “I just thought that you two were getting along, there’s nothing wrong with-“

“You thought wrong.” Alfred walks away.

The ship can barely make it over the Atlantic—Alfred’s never really liked the ocean. 

The only thoughts in Alfred’s head are the sights he had seen, somehow worse than the war, the countless deaths, worse because they promised more. 

He saw a man defeated, cocked and loaded like a worn-out gun, waiting for the right shot, a bomb that’s rigged to explode at only an exact moment. Ludwig was dragged in chains, unable to hold himself, gaunt and a sickly shade closer to gray than white, radiating confusion, disorientation. And just under the surface, ruminating, fermenting into something foul, was anger: pure hatred with just enough desperation to grow something ugly. Alfred was not exaggerating when he threatened hellfire—he could see it coming.

The brothers and sisters of Sadik, the land of Turkey, were dragged away, lambs to the slaughter. They were kneeled before the Europeans, inferior as they were: the Ottoman Empire being ripped to irreparable shreds, and Sadik a blubbering mess and of too weak a constitution to prevent any of it.

Roderich and Elizabeta, once a happily married couple, were separated by cuffs, their wedding bands missing, stolen probably. Elizabeta was weeping quietly, only known to be alive by the shake of her body. Roderich stared straight ahead, his eyes sunk and his lips blue, his skin ash. They hadn’t asked for any of this. The victims were made to be the enemy.

Alfred had no say as Ludwig struggled for the strength to hold the pen to sign his death warrant. The reparations that Germany owed France and England in the treaty could never be repaid, the only purpose of the reparations was to bring ruin upon Germany. It would only be a number of months until the people of Germany were using their paper currency as fire starters and coins as skipping stones across lakes to make up for their new lack of worth.

Ivan, the man Alfred doesn’t know, watched as it all happened with a small smile, looking ready to squash Ludwig’s head beneath his foot. He wasn’t invited to the conference, but no one told him to leave, Alfred’s nor even sure if anyone else noticed his presence. But he did. Alfred stared and eventually Ivan looked back. 

Alfred’s ship docks. He pulls out another cigarette. 

A month later Alfred receives an invitation for a party: a celebration for the end of the war. The Central Powers have been invited as well as a stab to their pride, like children that are being given permission to sit with the grown-ups. Of course, they’ll be forced to attend, whether it be through request of the Allied Powers or commands from their own leaders. Salt in wounds, spitting at someone’s who’s already down, not merciful in any way, but when have men ever been?

Versailles, France, is where Alfred arrives on a sunny, breezy afternoon. It’s the same city that prescribed Europe a treaty of doom is following suit to rubbing it in everyone’s face. Perhaps he’s being dramatic, Alfred hasn’t decided yet.

“You look lovely, mon cher.” Alfred is sure that the compliment isn’t sincere, but he’s also sure that Francis isn’t mocking him. His mind is just somewhere else, seeing things that aren’t there anymore.

“You too, Francis.” His eyes have barely concealed bags under them, however, his many exterior wounds have healed and lovely could very well be a way to describe him. “This is a beautiful party.” It truly is, Francis’ parties are always beautiful, the roof opens to the night sky and the courtyard shines gold. The Palace of Versailles is a place of dreams, existing outside of the terrors and devastation of the world around. 

Francis downs the rest of his champagne in one large gulp and then smiles at Alfred. “Merci.” He grabs another glass off of a passing tray and leaves to mingle with others. He’s swaying slightly to the syncopation of the jazz band as he walks. Alfred knows that, to put it lightly, Francis is not a connoisseur of jazz, similarly, no one here would likewise be, aside from Alfred. Jazz started in New Orleans, is Francis trying to cater? Alfred appreciates the attempt. The sax-player is going wild, Alfred makes a mental-note to get him a drink later. 

Antonio is here, despite not having a part in the war. Alfred notices him by his loud voice and his obnoxious colored outfit—he appears to be trying to convince Lovino to dance. Feliciano is talking softly with Ludwig, smile ever present on his face, yet there’s a nervousness to him that isn’t usually present. It occurs to Alfred that he’s asking for Ludwig’s forgiveness. Sadik is not present, he had never been close with the europeans anyway. Ivan doesn’t appear to be here either; he has his own problems right now.

Ludwig’s pale face is thin and there’s a tenseness in his muscles that won’t go away no matter how gently Feliciano handles him. Elizabeta and Roderich stand next to each other but do not hold hands. Their wedding bands continue to be absent. Gilbert converses with them like they aren’t fragile and they both seem to appreciate that. 

Alfred isn’t sure what would happen if he were to greet them all. He decides against it: it’s too soon, way too soon. A master saying “good day!” to their slave as if they hadn’t given them twenty lashes before the sun had rose that same morning.

Soft laughter comes from the open bar. Matthew is talking with Arthur, who is already extremely intoxicated.

This is less of a party and more of a “drown your sorrows and reconcile with your loved ones” gathering. But that conclusion begs the question: what constitutes as a “loved one?”

“Why wasn’t Jesus born in Britain?”

Matthew is holding back giggles. “Why?”

“Coz’ he couldn’t find three wise men or a virgin.” 

Matthew dissolves into laughter.

Arthur notices Alfred walking towards them and smiles as if Alfred is the only person he wants to see. “Alfred! How are you, my boy?”

Alfred smiles back, does Arthur not dislike him? “I’m doin’ okay.”

“Good, good. Say, did you hear about the winner of the English beauty contest?”

“No?”

“Of course, neither did I.” Alfred breathes out a surprised laugh.

“He’s been doing this the whole time, Al.” Matthew is grinning wider than Alfred has seen in ages and Alfred wonders how much Matthew has had to drink as well. Alfred orders them all another round of shots (a double for himself) and Alfred takes a seat next to him.

Arthur makes another stupid joke and Matthew laughs too loudly for his quiet personality and Alfred feels warm again. 

Francis joins them and slings himself over Matthew, laughing along with him, staring at his face for too long, looking innocent after years of presenting himself solely as a walking scandal, a fling when you’re feeling lonely, a night out on the town or maybe a motel you stay at for a couple days but inevitably walk away from. Maybe he’s tired of being left in the dust of those vacant rooms, Alfred wouldn’t blame him, it seems lonely. Matthew definitely notices his closeness, his excessive clinginess, but he doesn’t say anything about it, perhaps afraid to shatter what they’ve silently agreed to let happen. His hands draw through Francis’ hair, whose head is now lolling onto Matthew’s shoulder.

Arthur says that Alfred’s hair needs to be cut and Alfred says that Arthur is annoying in some backhanded way but Arthur doesn’t take offense, just smiles with unusual optimism and tucks a stray curl behind Alfred’s ear with such reverence that it sends a chill down Alfred’s spine.

There’s a familiar stare on Alfred’s back, it’s the man Alfred doesn’t know, he showed up despite his problems. Dread, but also a rush of adrenaline.

Arthur’s hand has ended up nearly in Alfred’s, ever so hesitantly gripping his fingertips much too gently so Alfred gets up and leaves Arthur’s hand behind. Someone he doesn’t know and too many drinks and his source of emotionally de-stability whose hand he just dropped. All he can see are those violet, hungry, tired eyes that look like the color of a bruise, and his stupid scarf that Alfred is going to rip off to see a pale neck that he’ll leave actual bruises on just to see the blood rush up from under his skin. Bruises from a love bite that doesn’t come from love. It’s Ivan, of course, who else? Alfred wants to hold him down and ruin him, see him fall from his high horse and beg on his fucking knees. This is someone he could never care about.

Cold hands and hard eyes greet him with a meaningless smile and pull him outside, Ivan doesn’t ask questions because why would he? (He always pretends he knows all the answers anyway.) Hot breath and biting, scratching, quick hands. It’s freezing outside, the wind won’t stop whipping, won’t stop shouting and whistling through the buildings and right through Alfred’s hands, right over Ivan’s wounds and scars, going straight to his crooked and beaten heart. Ivan’s hands are so cold, so fast—they’ve never felt love. Love, now that’s a subject. He could never care about this man, and certainly never love him.

“I hate you.” It doesn’t have the same effect when whispered into the mouth of someone who has their hand down his pants.

“I know.”

Ivan doesn’t stay, he leaves, and with the teeth marks and nail indents in Alfred’s skin, Ivan’s hard eyes gain the focus that he never once needed Alfred for. So why does he do this? What are they? (Alfred doesn’t care.) 

He changed the feeling of the entire night, the feeling of the oxygen moving in and out of Alfred’s lungs. Alfred’s glasses are on the floor, hopefully not cracked.

It’s so cold. Alfred tidies himself in the bathroom, splashes water on his face. He looks in the mirror and his eyes are made of stone. He runs to the toilet and throws up for no other reason than too much honey whiskey. He heaves until he feels like himself again and carefully avoids the mirror when he washes his face.

The party hasn’t died yet, not that it was ever alive in the first place, or that it could truly be categorized as a party. Antonio finally convinced Lovino to dance with him, they’re spinning and twirling and laughing and even Lovino is smiling, alone together on the empty dance floor. It’s safe to assume that Feliciano has never once left Ludwig’s side and now Ludwig doesn’t look so wary, so tense. Alfred observes the moment Feliciano puts a hand to Ludwig’s face and Ludwig sags into its warmth, puts his own hand on top of it. Gilbert, Elizabeta, and Roderich are missing, which most likely means that Gilbert and Elizabeta are getting into trouble and Roderich was forced to supervise.

Arthur, Matthew, and Francis are in the same place that Alfred left them, erupting into laughter every once in a while. This is how they live, they go through their wars and their famines and they make a joke and get the fuck over it. They continue living, what else can they do? Alfred will continue living and making jokes and dumb quips to deal with the ice that threatens to creep up his fingers and spine and freeze him. Arthur and his ridiculously green eyes look up as Alfred takes his seat again.

“Al! You’re back! Did you know that Francis used to swallow toothpaste?” Matthew looks delighted.

“It was just invented! How was I to know?” Francis looks warm.

Alfred laughs and he feels so cold. He orders another double shot to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth and sneaks his hand into Arthur’s, hopes that they’re both just a little fucked up right now and that’s the only reason they’re letting this happen. Arthur holds his hand, doesn’t let him go again, doesn’t ask where he went (why he came back).

Francis offers to let Matthew stay at his house for the night. Matthew plays with a strand of Francis’ hair, winding and unwinding it around his finger in a bold way, and says that he’ll have to take him up on that offer. They leave and then it’s only Arthur making shitty jokes and Alfred interjecting with even shittier puns that he hasn’t had the chance to bust out for years (for the first time without complaints from Arthur) and they laugh and laugh and laugh and drink and drink and drink until Alfred can’t feel the cold around him anymore, can’t feel the cold inside him anymore.

Arthur begins to slur his words and Alfred takes him by the hand gently (the gentlest that Alfred has been in a long time, has been allowed to be in a long time) and leads him to the hotel down the street, checks them in despite it nearing two in the morning. Arthur clings to his side, won’t let go of his hand but Alfred doesn’t want him to. He looks at Arthur’s face and tells himself that this is the man he won’t care about because he doesn’t even like him.

Arthur takes his shoes off, shrugs his suit from his shoulders, shrugs the weight from his head, and gets under the covers of the hotel bed.

“C’mere,” he murmurs. So Alfred does, what else can he do? His life is always that question; what else? Is there another option? Who cares? Alfred gets in the damn bed with Arthur and lets himself feel fucking warm again. They just sleep, Arthur against his chest. He never did get that sax-player a drink.

When he wakes up, Arthur is gone, what else can he do? Is there another option? (Christ, who fucking cares?)

A long time ago, they were nothing like this. Alfred was nothing like this. 

After the American Revolution, the War of 1812 was only a slap in the face, a loud snarl from a feral mutt with sharp teeth scaring another thing off of its territory, just to remind England that America will not stop fighting, will never stop fighting. It’s stupid and the Americans are too inexperienced and raw from the American Revolution to be fighting another war. It ends with a treaty, but the Battle of New Orleans is won after the signing of the treaty, by the Americans, one last kick in the ass. With the help of Arthur, Matthew burns the Whitehouse to the ground and Alfred is doused in cold water, but then again, he wasn’t expecting Arthur and Matthew to be friendly to him. He’s not sure what it is exactly that he expected. Alfred would have to be stronger.

1845 and the Mexican president doesn’t want to give up the Texas territory. James K. Polk, the new President of the United States, puts a fairly swift end to that dispute. By 1848, Mexico has lost Texas and the United States smoothes things over with millions of dollars in compensation. 

1861, and everything goes to shit. The people of the United States of America become the unionists or the confederates. Families fight each other, slaves are forced to fight for the people that they hate so dearly, millions die and the hills of golden grain are soaked red. Alfred’s body is broken, bruises and scrapes cover every inch of his skin, his mood changes on a dime—crying without warning and then screaming in the next second. 

There are whispers, only whispers, that England planned to help the confederates, to get rid of the United States of America for good, to show a bratty child once under their control that they shouldn’t have messed with Great Britain, that they shouldn’t have bit the hand that feeds, that they made a mistake when they fucked with a world superpower. More whispers say that Arthur stopped that from happening, that he wouldn’t go through with the plan, that he refused to become involved despite his best advisors urging that he do otherwise. They’re whispers, only whispers.

When it ends in 1865, it takes years for Alfred to return to his usual self, but there’s a part of him that’s different, will always remain different. A change in his eyes, the way he breathes and shifts on his feet, the way he studies each person he sees before allowing them his thousand-watt smile. Alfred has learned to be stronger.

1895 and Alfred thinks that he’s had enough of Antonio. Antonio, so similar to Arthur, to what Arthur used to be at least. Alfred knows what it’s like to be trapped, to be a part of something that takes advantage of you, takes you for granted and never listens. Cuba is fighting a bloody war for their freedom and Spain is determined to keep their fist-hold in the Americas. Despite Antonio’s assistance in the past, Alfred’s blood boils.

The U.S.S. Maine explodes and Alfred points a finger.

“Greaseball.”

“Maricón.” Rich, coming from him.

Antonio looks at Alfred and sees a child that has been an adult his entire life, someone that takes their sweet, young innocence and uses it to survive when looking down the barrel of gun and yet still turns any situation into a joke, because how else is it supposed to be dealt with? 

Cuba wins their independence the same year. The United States add Guam, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines to their growing list of territories. Alfred will become even stronger. 

“Thank you, but the Europeans won’t leave forever.”

“I know.” Alfred gets an uneasy feeling from this newly independent young man, boy, downright child, wonders if this is how people felt about him.

But the year is no longer 1895, the year is 1918, and Alfred has a feeling that the “War to End All Wars” is nowhere near ending all wars.

Depression hits everyone and Alfred introduces tariffs, they drive his economy and the bodies of his people into the ground.

Prices soar and and world wide trade plummets, Adolf Hitler and his Nazi party shine a light for the German people. He takes Sudentenland and everyone’s just peachy, nothing wrong here, as long as he makes a promise to not take the rest of Czechoslovakia. Except, he takes the rest of Czechoslovakia, then he takes Austria, all without a fight, without a word of protest about how he’s breaking the “treaty”. Neville “Coward” Chamberlain and Charles “Weak” de Gaulle, English and French leaders, say that they’ll go to war if he marches into Polish land.

It’s none of Alfred’s business.

Hitler takes Poland. Chamberlain and Gaulle declare war, but do nothing as he takes Denmark, then Norway, then Belgium, then the Netherlands. Adolf takes France and the English Channel Islands. 

But really, it’s none of Alfred’s business.

Hitler turns on the Soviet Union. It was bound to happen. 

Alfred’s been steadily increasing the supplies being sent to the allies, to the United Kingdom. Whether he realizes this is up for debate so Matthew realizes for him.

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I know.”

“So, you do like him?”

“You’re an awfully annoying brother.”

Alfred finds no joy in war. War never has a winner, and as soon as he realized that, he never wanted anything to do with it, only wanted to see his people safe and his businesses grow stronger. Of course he wants to help, of course he doesn’t want to watch his former allies fall apart, but he’s weak from his economy crashing and burning, falling to pieces, and his president doesn’t want to risk American lives, the Senate seems to agree. Being young comes with inexperience, comes with the ability to recover faster, comes with the ability to come back full-force, better than ever.

Alfred does not dare to look at the immeasurable casualties, at his former allies begging him to help, throwing their pride away in their desperate need for any outside intervention, he doesn’t know what he’d do if he spares a glance. They say that it’s insane, that there are hundreds dying by the minute, humans being imprisoned and tortured. Alfred hears none of it, blocks it out. It’s none of his fucking business so why can’t he just turn his head, act oblivious? Why can’t he? What’s not letting him do that?

Francis calls him selfish. Matthew, Alfred’s own brother, leaves his side to join the fight.

“Don’t you care about him?”

“No!”

“Alfred.”

“Maybe.”

“Alfred, please.”

“I don’t know.”

“Al-“

“I don’t know, Matt.” How could he know?

December, 1941, and Kiku decides that maybe Alfred needs louder encouragement to join the war. This is the first time that Alfred has truly hated someone. Maybe it wasn’t Kiku, maybe it was his boss and Kiku had no say in it because he had to follow orders. Then again, maybe Alfred will make Kiku bleed.

Alfred meets with Arthur and Francis, Matthew joins them soon after Alfred arrives. It’s so fucking cold in England and now it pisses Alfred off more than usual.

“It took you long enough.”

Alfred stares at Arthur and Arthur doesn’t press him any further, doesn’t bring up the party at the Palace of Versailles, the hotel. Why would he?

There’s a difference between soldiers dying and civilians dying, children aren’t supposed to die from war, much less terrorism. 2,403 dead, all non-combatants, all screaming out and silenced. Alfred could feel their fear, their bewilderment, the moment they lost hope, their last breath. A son yelling for his mother who was lying in a ditch nearby, a father cradling his daughter as she bleeds out, bombs singing through the air like death was whistling a merry tune as it took a stroll. How dare Japan’s people be safe in their homes? Yes, Kiku would pay.

And it’s all because of these Eastern countries, all because they couldn’t fucking help themselves. 

Arthur places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” He has the same unknown face that he had after the Paris Peace Conference, it’s persistent, it’s frustrating.

Arthur looks tired. Alfred can’t remember the last time that he saw Arthur when he wasn’t tired. 

Alfred wants to shrug off the hand, wants to say that apologizing isn’t nearly enough, that it’s pathetic and so is the person that the apology came from, that he told Arthur this would happen, that he should’ve listened. For a reason that isn’t clear, he doesn’t. Arthur’s hand stays where it is and Alfred looks at his shoes. Arthur drops his hand. 

Francis is mute, looking ahead at nothing, thinking of his people, trapped in their own homes or laying in the streets with bullets in the back of their heads. Alfred can’t help but think that he deserves it, but he also knows that’s false. Alfred and Arthur formulate a plan to invade German-occupied parts of France, and Francis doesn’t blink as he nods his head in agreement, he’s a ghost. Matthew stays by his side.

June 6, 1944, in the early Tuesday morning, dummies are dropped ashore as multiple combatants infiltrate and cut off communications, by 6:30, allied infantry would ambush a 50-mile stretch of beach in Normandy. Their soldiers will line up like dominos waiting to be pushed over, then they’ll knock each other down, one after another. Bowling pins, water balloons under the supervision of kids who are hyper to throw them, to see them explode.

It’s stuffy in their conference room, so much so that Alfred almost looks forward to being in the field. Alfred steps outside into the damp air of England and lights a cigarette. Arthur asks for a drag; Alfred obliges. It’s a little warmer, it’s been so cold, lately.

Arthur’s hands are cold, frigid, leaving goosebumps wherever they touch, invisible trails of frost that remind him of the man he could never love. Alfred takes them in his own to share what little warmth he has left in his also too-cold-hands, they’re shaking, shivering, perhaps trembling but from what? Alfred wants Arthur’s hands to be warm, doesn’t want him to be that man that he doesn’t care about, wants so desperately for him to be different.

Arthur looks at him with that same stupid, beautiful expression, like he’s the only thing that matters, like there aren’t loyal men with families dying at this very moment, giving up everything they have or have ever had, and Alfred wants to believe him, to not feel cold anymore. Is Alfred someone that Arthur can’t love? Worse, someone that he won’t love?

Alfred knows of the mud making it impossible to move, the bombshells making a drum beat that’s off rhythm, the bullets like someone is knocking far too fast and ready to barge in, what it feels like to roll over in the dirt and have a corpse inches from his face, the sickening feeling when a child is forced to take the life of someone that they didn’t know, that was faceless, that they had no quarrel against. He’d lived through it, he hadn’t had a choice. He’d lived. So many of these men would not live.

“It gets easier, love.” Love, love, love, definitely not Alfred’s area of expertise.

Arthur looks at him, he’s been doing that a lot, through those same tired eyes. Alfred wishes he’d get more sleep.

Alfred rests a hand on Arthur’s cheek and smiles in a way that he hasn’t smiled in a long time. “No, it doesn’t.”

The sky is too cloudy to see any stars, and even if it were the clearest summer night, light pollution would keep the twinkling away. Alfred swears that he sees one peeking through a hole in a cumulonimbus, wishes on it. He sees their flags, the flags of the Allied Powers flown high in front of their conference building.

Red. Blood, war, what more could be said? The color of pride and roses. Violent, volatile crimson that are the speckled kisses on someone’s cheek and lipstick at night, bites that leave bruises. Strawberries in the summer, apples in the fall.

White. It’s a worthless color, meaning nothing more than the flag you wave to show surrender, stop, “no more!”. The color of a coward, the color of someone that fears death, the color of selfishness. Washed linen sheets and bleach.

And blue. Cold, unwelcoming, frost-bitten landscapes and the purple, dead fingers that come with it. The lands that no one could leave in peace, the color of the oceans, seas, and rivers that separate and provide. The most popular color in the world. Tears and the color of a blind man’s eyes.

The Battle of Midway changes the war in the Pacific. An emperor corrupted with power, people who would rather jump into the sea and die on the rocks of the shore than be captured. Mothers and fathers throw their children off of cliffs and then jump themselves. Kiku is just obeying orders. 

But that’s none of Alfred’s business.

In the European theater the allies are winning. In the Pacific theater, bloodshed continues. Japan won’t surrender, the people of Japan cry out for the war to end, their houses in smolders and their families ripped apart, but Japan won’t surrender. 

On August 2nd they split Berlin, Germany into four. Japan must unconditionally surrender. The Potsdam Conference makes that clear. Arthur is curious when Alfred speaks. 

“Trust me, they’ll surrender.”

August 6th, Hiroshima. As news spreads, a hush falls over the world. Alfred is alone, this giant that could crush anyone in his path and he knows it. The emperor surrenders. The general doesn’t. They hold their breath.

August 9th, Nagasaki. Hundreds of thousands, and hundreds of thousands more in the years to pass, wasted away. Some incinerated, some melted, some burned, some from suicide, some from cancer, some from radiation poisoning. 

August 14th, 1945, Japan unconditionally surrenders. 

People in the USA dance in the streets, throw confetti, blast music, raise banners, the USA was hardly touched, but the people were devastated and Alfred was ravished. There are ghost roaches writhing under his skin, invisible hands grasping at any available inch of skin, he killed thousands of children, thousands of elderly, thousands of mothers and fathers. The blasphemous hypocrite that he is.

Ivan makes a visit, flies across the Atlantic just to see him, just to feel Alfred’s squirming skin under his cold, brutal hands and look at his complete destruction with his hard eyes. 

Ivan dares to press his masochistic lips to Alfred’s. Alfred tells him to get the fuck out (just like he always knew he would).

(He does.)

Arthur makes a visit, flies across the Atlantic just to see him, just to put his hand on Alfred’s shoulder, just to look at Alfred’s face and ask if he’s okay, make sure that he’s okay.

Arthur dares to grasp Alfred’s hand tight. Alfred begs him to stay (just like he always would before).

(He doesn’t.)

There are rumors flying around.

Have you heard about the Soviet Union?

I heard they were killing their people. I heard that communism is destroying them. I heard that their people are enslaved. I heard that it’s spreading. I heard that it’s going to take over Europe. I heard that we’re next. I heard-

This is completely Alfred’s business.

March 5, 1946, Winston Churchill recognizes a line that’s drawn down the middle of Europe; the “Iron Curtain”. With that, Alfred and Arthur are once again firmly on the same side. Arthur’s immediate loyalty fills Alfred with some sort of emotion that he can’t comprehend at the moment, that he won’t comprehend at the moment. (Appreciation? Satisfaction? Adoration?) 

“Communism can’t spread, Art.”

“I know.”

“We can’t let it spread.”

“I know.”

“The people, the people would suffer, families hungry in the streets with no chance of recovery, economies stripped and reshaped under the misguided notions of foolish leaders, reforms that only hurt culture, that never needed to occur.”

“I know.”

“We can’t let it spread, I heard-“

“I know, Al.”

March 12, 1947, the Truman Doctrine. The US, under President Truman, vows to help any country that is under threat of communist takeover. June 5, 1947, the Marshall Plan. The US offers economic support to struggling European countries, ones under threat of communism, specifically Turkey and Greece. Alfred stands by Sadik and Heracles, not sure if it’s out of fear or kindness.

“Thank you.” It’s Sadik.

No response.

“You’ve saved our people.” It’s Heracles.

“You need to stand on your own. I only warded off Ivan.” It’s cold, he’s cold, Alfred, he’s grown cold, colder.

June, 1948, the four sectors of Berlin, Germany are partially merged. The UK, the US, and France unite their territories to form West Berlin. The Soviet Union keeps their territory and on the 24th, builds the Berlin Blockade. The blockade starves western Berlin, there is no way in or out and the people living there can no longer get food.

“This has to stop.”

“I know.”

“Our people are suffering, they’re separated from their families, they’re starving.”

“I know.” Our people, our people, our people; it echoes in Alfred’s head. Arthur said “our people”.

The US and UK drop supplies by airplane, saving their people, Arthur, saving their people, his people and Alfred’s people, until the blockade ends in the May of the next year.

“Our people.” Alfred tries it out on his tongue at a whisper.

“Pardon?”

Alfred smiles. “Just practicing pronunciations.”

Arthur smiles back. “Never something that you’ve been particularly good at.” 

April 4, 1949, the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation is formed. The UK, US, and France are joined by Canada, Belgium, Denmark, Iceland, Norway, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Italy, Portugal, and others. Alfred once again stands by Matthew, his brother, and Matthew once again stands by his Francis. The nordics come from strange places with strange customs and are therefore strange. Mathias exudes confidence that has Lukas gravitating close to him, his brother Emil not trailing far behind. The Italy brothers, Feliciano and Lovino Vargas, stay close to Antonio’s brother, João, speaking quiet but rapid Spanish, their shared language. Remaining people stand on their own, watching each other with wary eyes. It works, somehow.

“Didn’t need this treaty to know that you’ve got my back, Artie.”

Arthur shakes his head, but he’s horribly fond-looking. “As endearing as that is, please refrain from calling me ‘Artie’. How would you feel about being called Alfie?” His pride never wavers, like the color red, like the blood flowing through his veins.

Alfred shrugs, then winks. “If ya’d like.”

June 25, 1950, the Korean War starts, North Korea invades South Korea. Im Hyung Soo attacks his own brother, Im Yong Soo, and it starts a chain reaction. Ivan immediately backs Hyung and Alfred immediately backs Yong. They’re matched and Alfred’s people have started complaining, but they don’t understand.

“I heard we’re next.”

“I know.”

The war ends July 27, 1953 with hardly any gain from either side. Joseph Stalin passes away somewhere in the middle. March 5, earlier that year, Alfred’s informed. 

In the summer of 1954, Vietnam is finally split in two. The US quickly forms relations with the non-communist South Vietnam.

“Am I a good person?”

Arthur is reading a book, he doesn’t look up. “What silly thing are you on about now?”

“I wanna know if I’m really a good person. I like to think I am, but lately… I’m just… not sure.”

Then Arthur does look up at Alfred. Alfred looks back.

“Yesterday I was walking through this sub-burb, there were kids playing on swings and families running around with their dogs, but they all went inside around dinner time.”

Arthur’s attention is on him.

“I kept walking, and there was this grey squirrel in the road, it was trying to cross but it was so hesitant. There was this convertible, I don’t even remember the company, but it was going too fast for a neighborhood and the guy driving didn’t care. That dumb little squirrel ran back in the opposite direction.”

Arthur must think he’s an idiot, getting like this over a squirrel. Alfred has killed thousands, millions, without regret, without a moment of hesitation. At least in that case he was doing something, not standing idle and letting life have its way with him.

“There was a moment, a second where I could have done something, jumped out in the road and gotten the car to stop, but I had never seen a squirrel get hit before, not with my own eyes, I thought it couldn’t possibly die right there, not when I’m watching.”

He could have done something. He didn’t do anything and he could have done something. A notion that seems to be repeating itself. Isn’t that what his entire history is? What he could’ve done.

“The car hit its back legs, then the back tires came and the squirrel rolled over. I couldn’t tell what part of his body got hurt the most, but the squirrel laid  
down on its side after the car passed,  
struggling a bit. The car didn’t even stop, the driver didn’t look back.”

Something, something, something. Stopped the car, taken the hit himself; he wouldn’t have died, he can’t die (he knew that).

“I went over to try to help as soon as the car was gone, but when I finally got to it, it was still. No blood, no mess, just a very quiet squirrel.” Alfred laughs, so much confusion, so much realization. “I can’t be sure, sometimes squirrels like to play dead as a survival tactic, or maybe it passed out from shock.” 

Arthur’s hand had found Alfred’s at some point, which is stupid. Alfred doesn’t need to be comforted over a squirrel, he’s not sad. He’s not upset, he doesn’t feel bad, he didn’t do anything. He could have done something and he didn’t do something and he let another living thing die because he didn’t do something, even though he could have. Alfred’s not sad, he doesn’t know what he is; he does know that he is holding Arthur’s hand for the first time since the Palace of Versailles, and it’s certainly not because he’s upset over a squirrel.

“I picked it up and just held it. So many cars passed, people, my people, staring at me with disgust because I was holding a dead rodent.” Alfred pauses to laugh again. “I must’ve looked stupid as fuck, cradling a dead squirrel.” Alfred sighs like he’s an old man, something he’s felt like for a while now. “I left it under a bush so if it ever woke up, it’d be hidden.” It was still warm. Alfred prayed, except he didn’t pray because he’s beyond believing that anyone is here for a reason, that it would be okay.

Alfred looks at Arthur’s freckled hand, then to Arthur’s shining eyes, brimming with some sort of emotion. Arthur doesn’t look tired.

“It’s only a squirrel, Al.”

“I know.”

“Thousands die everyday. It would have still died had you not been there.”

Alfred squeezes Arthur’s hand, what he’s feeling; it’s so hard to explain. “But I was there, I had the choice. Things die all the time, but isn’t it everyone’s job to protect things when they can? Isn’t it my job?” Now Alfred’s the one that feels tired. “It would have died if I wasn’t there, but because I was there, and it still died, it becomes my fault.”

Arthur looks at him, he has been since they started talking, but now he looks at Alfred with clarity.

“You asked if you’re a good person?”

“Yes.”

Arthur puts his hand to Alfred’s face, that’s new. Talking like this, open, honest; that’s new too, just perhaps, not as new as Alfred thinks. “Just the fact that you think the way you do should answer your question.” 

Arthur looks at him, in that strange way, once again. “You’re the best man that I’ve ever known.”

Alfred thinks maybe he should kiss him. He doesn’t, but maybe he should.

“I hate feeling like this, Artie.”

“I know.” They’re not talking about the squirrel anymore.

“Like I can’t do anything, like I’m powerless.”

“I know.” 

“I hate him.”

Arthur hugs him tight. Alfred wonders when he let himself get so selfish; the color white, the blood draining from his face.

Alfred lets the sun sink into his skin, lets himself lean into Arthur.

May 14, 1955, the Warsaw Pact is signed, forming an alliance between East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, Poland, Bulgaria, Albania, and, of course, the Soviet Union. The two superpowers (Alfred isn’t sure if he likes being one of those or not) have made their friends and their enemies. October 23rd of the next year and Hungary is already rebelling. They fail.

“It’s a bad idea.”

“I know.”

“A horrible idea, really.”

“It’s not up to me.”

October 30, 1956, France and the UK invade Egypt for the Suez Canal. The US fears that this will cause Egypt to turn to the Soviet Union for support and heavily criticizes the entire attack.

“That was a bad idea.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“Are you okay?”

A small smile. “I always manage.”

Alfred smiles back.

April 17, 1961, the Bay of Pigs invasion. The United States government attempts to overthrow the communist government of Cuba by sending in CIA trained Cuban-exiles. It fails horribly.

“That was a bad idea.”

“Bite me, Limey.”

August 13, 1961, the Berlin Wall goes up, separating East and West Germany. It puts a finite barrier between democracy and communism. Alfred feels nothing but relief, immense relief, more than Francis or Arthur and it makes them curious, maybe concerned.

“Did something happen between you and Ivan?”

“He’s a piece of shit.” He’s the person that Alfred could never love, that could never love Alfred; he never tried.

“Yes, but is there something specific?”

Alfred looks into Arthur’s eyes and he doesn’t love him. No, he doesn’t love him. He doesn’t love him. He doesn’t love- Christ, it’s really a lost cause.

“No, nothing specific.” Arthur trusts him, and fuck it all if Alfred can’t lie to him. “Nothing that I can’t handle.”

Arthur stands in silence, considering. Then he speaks. “I know.”

October 14, 1962, the Cuban Missile Crisis. Alfred remembers the vodka on Ivan’s breath. Were Russians cursed to only drink one liquor? Alfred can’t imagine him drinking anything else, trying anything else, being anything else. They, whatever they were, are over. Alfred remembers the knife being pressed to his throat and not being nearly as scared as he should have been. This is the last time Alfred will be blind-sided by these Easterners.

July, 1965, the US sends thousands of troops to the aid of South Vietnam. Like punching Ivan in the gut, like making him choke but not in the hopes of killing him, just to see him suffer, just to see him beg for air.

July 20, 1969, the US wins the space race. Neil Armstrong, an American, is the first to walk on the surface of the moon. Ivan loses his smug grin, if only for a moment. 

September 3, 1971, the Four Power Agreement. The US, the UK, France, and the Soviet Union are reminded of their duties as occupiers of Berlin. Together, they decide that it’s time for a world meeting to be held, after nearly 100 years of separation.

“Welcome to our thirty-second worldwide conference.” Ludwig looks good, at least, compared to the last time that Alfred saw him. He’s put on muscle and he holds himself proudly. Feliciano sits at his right, Kiku to his left.

“Before we begin, it is customary to recite the rules of the conference agreement.” During the first-ever world conference, it was debated which language would be officially used. English won due to Britain having a hand in everything, but not without rumbling from other countries and constant complaints about how dull of a language English is.

“Number one: there will be no bodily harm or threat of bodily harm.” That rule is taken lightly to say the least. Alfred can’t count on his hands the number of times he’s been threatened at one of these conferences.

“Number two: no purposefully provoking or aggravating anyone else.” Next to Feliciano is Lovino, his brother. Kiku is also sitting with his brother, Yao. Following suit, Alfred sits with Matthew.

“And number three: please do try to stick to politics.” Ludwig looks pointedly at Alfred’s crowd, next to Lovino, Antonio snorts. Arthur looks offended, Matthew seems apologetic, and Francis sits smugly, restored to his old, bastardly self. Alfred knows they can be annoying, he can get awfully loud and Francis always ends up getting into a fist fight with Arthur. “With that, feel free to converse. We will convene in an hour to discuss.”

Antonio immediately turns to Lovino and begins speaking Italian so fast it makes Alfred’s head spin to try to understand what he’s saying. The topic is something about good harvests, and despite Lovino’s numerous attempts to dampen Antonio’s spirits with insults (saying some things that, frankly, Alfred might’ve gone to war over) he’s leaning towards Antonio and trying to push his smile back. He looks content. Antonio is head-over-heels. Who’s the maricón now?

Ivan is chatting with Yao in soft Russian, Yao responds in equally soft Mandarin. They seem to understand each other perfectly, but they still choose to speak only their own languages. Communists are fucking weird. Ivan’s eyes are softer and Alfred thinks that maybe the man he could never love finally found someone who could. The man who never tried to love finally found a reason to.

Arthur has already gotten into an argument with Francis. 

“Fuck off.”

“It was only an innocent question mon cher.” He sounds conniving but his face betrays his taken offense from being cussed at. “If you are too weak, or perhaps, cowardly, to do so, then you need only say.”

“Weak?” Arthur laughs and it sounds dangerous, maybe scared. “Whatever you may call me, I still broiled your precious Sainte Jeanne d’Arc, fucking crapaud.” 

Francis’ eyes flash. “Baise toi.” 

Unless they’re drunk, it always ends up like this, yet they’re somehow still friends, they somehow still care about each other. Matthew quietly pulls Francis to the side, and Arthur leaves him be. French is a beautiful language in Alfred’s opinion, but it’s hard to say softly. Pronunciations get lost when someone attempts to speak French in any voice lower than speaking, the price for having so many vowels. Somehow, Matthew manages to sound as well-versed as royalty and rarely hold his voice above a whisper.

“What’d he do, piss in your cornflakes?”

“Nothing.” Arthur normally loves to complain about Francis, so Alfred’s not sure what could have been so bad that Arthur doesn’t want to.

“Alright, your business.” Arthur has his arms crossed. “How’ve been, old man?” That gets Arthur to break his frown.

“Don’t call me old man, it’ll come true.”

“Too late for that, is that a grey hair I see?”

Arthur swats his hand away from his hair. “It better bloody not be. I refuse to be an aged immortal.” That’s something that Alfred forgets sometimes. They’re immortal.

Arthur pulls on the lapels on Alfred’s suit. “When you were younger, you never straightened out your suit. Hell, it took a whole day to get you to even wear your suit.” Arthur smooths down the gorge of the suit and tucks Alfred’s tie in. “Some things don’t change.”

“Some things do.” Alfred doesn’t think before he says it, because he doesn’t mean it maliciously. Thankfully, Arthur seems to hear that in his voice. 

Arthur looks up at him with (christ, not again) that look. It’s not that far of a look-up, Arthur’s only a couple inches shorter, but Alfred makes sure to flaunt his height. If Arthur were to lean forward on his toes, they would be the same height. 

“Right.” Arthur releases his tie and steps back, leaving to talk with someone else.

If Alfred had one wish, it would be to know what Arthur is thinking. He returns to surveying what the others are doing.

Feliciano is quiet, not speaking much, which is a real change of pace. He’s sat next to Ludwig, who looks to be showing him pictures. Ludwig is breaking his own rules, this definitely doesn’t have anything to do with politics. However, Ludwig never quite cared about the rules when it came to Feliciano; rushing to his aid, sending troops to defend and protect or even fight in the name of Italy. Alfred notices a similarity between him and Ludwig, and has to keep himself from laughing out loud. Oh God, he’s fucked.

“Got a reason for staring at my brother?” It’s Lovino. Antonio has turned to chat with his brother, João, who doesn’t look like he wants to be talking with Antonio.

“Uh, no. Just people watching.”

“How about you ‘people-watch’ other people?” Lovino loves to pretend that he doesn’t want to be associated with Feliciano, but he’s quite protective of his sibling.

Despite the hostility, Lovino joins Alfred in looking at Ludwig and Feliciano. 

“They are innamorati. In love.” Alfred’s shocked that Lovino would admit that his brother has affection for Ludwig, someone that Lovino despises. Alfred doesn’t express that thought.

“Yeah.”

“So are you.”

Alfred scoffs. “Well, so are you.”

“Vaffanculo.” Lovino’s eyes lighten and they dart over to where Antonio seems to be passionately reenacting one of his previous conversations, one that he found particularly captivating. João, even though he still looks like he would rather be somewhere else, doesn’t seem to be able to help his smile, like Antonio pulls it from him. “You’re right.”

Lovino has never been this open, especially with Alfred, of all people. “Lovino, are you feeling okay?”

“What is that supposed to mean, fucker?”

“Never mind, you’re fine.”

Arthur is talking with Kiku now, he laughs heartily at something. Lovino follows his gaze.

“He loves you, too.”

“I don’t know.” 

Lovino gives him a look. “Whatever, I don’t care enough.” Lovino walks back to Antonio, which João takes as his signal to leave. Alfred joins Matthew, who’s sitting quietly, reading a book.

“Matty, we’re here to talk to each other, not read.” Matthew rolls his eyes, any intimidation factor that Alfred has over others is completely lost when it comes to Matthew. 

“So… watcha’ readin’?” Matthew’s pale face flushes slightly.

“Er… poetry, actually. F.R. Scott.”

Alfred settles next to Matthew and reads over his shoulder. Events and Signals. Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1954.

A Grain of Rice  
F.R. Scott

“Such majestic rhythms, such tiny disturbances.  
The rain of the monsoon falls, an inescapable treasure,  
Hundreds of millions live  
Only because of the certainty of this season,  
The turn of the wind.

The frame of our human house rests on the motion  
Of earth and of moon, the rise of continents,  
Invasion of deserts, erosion of hills,  
The capping of ice.

Today, while Europe tilted, drying the Baltic,  
I read of a battle between brothers in anguish.  
A flag moved a mile.

And today, from a curled leaf cocoon, in the course of its rhythm,  
I saw the break of a shell, the creation  
Of a great Asian moth, radiant, fragile,  
Incapable of not being born, and trembling  
To live its brief moment.

Religions build walls round our love, and science  
Is equal of truth and of error. Yet always we find  
Such ordered purpose in cell and in galaxy,  
So great a glory in life-thrust and mind-range,  
Such widening frontiers to draw out our longings,  
We grow to one world”

“That’s pretty heavy.”

“It’s not that heavy, it’s just how the world is. Canadian poets just seem to know how to capture that sorta stuff.” Matthew winks jokingly and Alfred snorts. Alfred sticks around and reads over Matthew’s shoulder some more.

“It’s time for our final conference.” Everyone slowly returns to their seats.

Ludwig goes around the table and asks each person for an update on their personal situation. Feliciano, Lovino, Antonio, João, Francis, and Matthew provide their thoughts before it gets to Alfred.

“I’m all good over here.” Alfred shoots a wink at nobody in particular. Next to him, Arthur sighs.

Then Arthur speaks. He says that the royal family is healthy and that his economy seems to be steadily growing since war-time. When Arthur speaks, no one else speaks and no one else mutters, his presence demands silence from the room and his eyes hold that silence for themselves, no whispers are traded and no heads turn away. There’s something terrifying or powerful in his every blink and every hand gesture, or maybe that’s just Alfred. Jett Kirkland, one of Arthur’s brothers, is next to speak, he was also once under the control of the United Kingdom. 

Alfred lets his head slump into his hands.

Afterwards, Ivan confronts him outside. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t try to shove Alfred against a wall and fuck him until he begs, doesn’t try to hurt him. 

“Goodbye.” Ivan holds out a hand, his glove removed.

Alfred takes his hand and shakes it once. 

“Bye.” 

For the first time, Ivan’s hands don’t feel cold. For the first time, Ivan’s hands don’t feel like poison. For the first fucking time Alfred doesn’t feel the need to run in the other direction, put as much space between him and this menace as possible, or see the man in front of him sink to the floor, see him breathless.

“Al!” Alfred turns his head; it’s Arthur. “Could I speak with you?” His eyes dart from Alfred to where Alfred grips Ivan’s hand so Alfred drops Ivan’s hand. Ivan walks away and Alfred walks to Arthur.

“What’s up?”

“I… um…” Arthur won’t meet Alfred’s eyes, favoring watching Ivan’s retreating silhouette instead.

Alfred blinks. “Were you… trying to get me away from Ivan?”

Arthur doesn’t respond. Holy shit.

“Oh my God, you were!” Alfred can’t deal with this. After everything he’s done, how hard he’s worked and how far he’s gotten on his own, he’ll never be equal.

Arthur crosses his arms against himself, indignant. “Maybe I was, I know you don’t like him.” Arthur shakes his head. “I was worried—I am worried, and it’s not about Ivan.” Worried? He wasn’t so worried when he left Alfred to raise himself, when he left Alfred to grow up in a lawless land where he’s told that he’s the good guy and that he’s right and it’s his divine right to slaughter natives, when Alfred’s people ate their shoes to survive and he sent English Officials that told them to tough it out, earn their way. The funny thing is that he always, without fail, says that he’s worried. Maybe Arthur is right, maybe some things never change.

“I’m not a little kid.”

“I know.” He’s sincere, sounds cautious.

Alfred takes a breath, puts his hands in his pockets in a habitual search for a cigarette. “Why are you worried?”

“Earlier, when you were supposed to report how you’ve been doing, you only said ‘I’m all good’, instead of saying anything of actual importance or substance.”

Alfred rolls his eyes and prepares himself for nagging, to hear how immature he is, how he needs to take this seriously, how he’s a child and a brat and impertinent and downright puerile. To think that Alfred was getting close to him, getting comfortable. He should have known that he was nothing more than the little kid from all those years ago that Arthur would continue look down on. Why is it his business who Alfred hangs out with? Arthur doesn’t have to be his savior because he was having a conversation with Ivan. 

Arthur reaches out and gingerly takes Alfred’s hand in his own, meets Alfred’s gaze, and finally, Alfred truly sees Arthur. Arthur speaks, mouth like nectar, words like honey, eyes that hold things that Alfred’s never seen before. “You don’t have to hide everything.”

Alfred stares. The sky drips, paints itself across Arthur’s face; there are stars in his eyes and Alfred is an astronomer, trying hopelessly to map those stars in all of their infinity, all of Arthur’s infinity. Alfred is an astrologer, trying desperately to figure out the meaning, the cause, the motive, to find which stars are aligning and which moon is coming into view. Alfred stares and stares until he gets so damn lost that he knows he’ll never be able to find his way back, but in the midst of that infinity, he finds warmth, all-encompassing warmth and suddenly he’s overheating, suddenly he’s about to burned, he can feel his skin sizzling.

“Yeah, thanks. I gotta go.” Alfred drops Arthur’s hand too fast and walks away too fast, without knowing where he’s going, without knowing where he wants to go, blinded, overwhelmed. What else can he do?

May 26th, 1972, S.A.L.T., the Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty is signed by the US and USSR Relief spreads throughout Europe. Despite this, Alfred can’t find it in himself to trust Ivan, doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to, not fully.

August 15th, 1973, the US is forced to withdraw troops from South Vietnam by the Paris Peace Accords. April 30, 1975, North Vietnam invades South Vietnam and becomes a unified, communist country. Alfred tastes defeat but it doesn’t feel like the world is ending, it doesn’t feel like he’s being threatened, like he’s weak. Maybe he’s matured. Maybe he’s just not concerned with being or appearing strong, not obsessed with the concept or revolving his life around it. (That’s not true, of course.) Maybe he wishes that he wasn’t that he wasn’t so worried, about being strong, becoming stronger. He’s lived his whole life this way.

July 1975, Apollo-Soyuz. A cooperative space mission between the US and the USSR Alfred may be able to endure Ivan, but he still knows better than to trust the man that sleeps with a knife under his pillow (a gun in his bedside drawer, too) and a time bomb in his head (a frost over his heart.)

December 24th, 1979, Soviet troops invade Afghanistan. At this point, Alfred isn’t surprised, just repulsed. In July 1980, the United States of America boycott the Olympics being held in Moscow to protest the invasion of Afghanistan, many other countries join them, and some participate in the Olympics under the Olympic flag instead of their national flag. Amongst the countries that chose the latter is the United Kingdom. Alfred hasn’t spoken with Arthur since the World Meeting, isn’t sure if Arthur wants to talk to him, isn’t sure if he wants to talk to Arthur (he desperately needs to talk to Arthur, to see Arthur, to hear Arthur’s voice). Alfred waits.

The next Olympics, July 1984, the Soviet Union boycotts, as they’re held in Los Angeles. Several of their allies join in the boycott, all in petty response to the earlier boycott by western countries. It’s something to scoff at, something a child would do, not in response to any real issue except what was interpreted as disrespect. 

March 11th, 1985, Mikhail Gorbachev becomes leader of the Soviet Union. Alfred senses it so he’s sure that Ivan does as well: Gorbachev is not a traditionalist, he’ll conform to the people, he’ll adapt to the ideas of the new world. This is the fall of the Soviet Union. In June, 1987, it comes true. Glasnost and Perestroika, two new policies of Mikhail Gorbachev that gives rights never formerly seen in the USSR, Glasnost being transparency, free speech, letting people speak their mind where before they were silenced, Perestroika being reforms of the gorvernment. 

It’s been leading up to this, the weakening of the Soviet Union, the strengthening of North Atlantic countries. November 9th, 1989, the Berlin Wall is officially torn down. Families, lovers, friends, all reunited. Lavish parties are thrown, crowds of people sing loud chants as they break apart hard, stone walls, piece by piece, brick by brick, lamenting the separation and anguish that each crumble and rock caused, taking slabs as momentums to remember the day that Berlin was finally free. 

Ludwig is the one to host the party (after some convincing from Feliciano, Alfred is sure.) The Germans that had been trapped for years were allowed to go where they please, able to live their lives without Soviet influence. The breaking of the Berlin wall not only freed the people, but it freed Germany. Ludwig was finally free. 

Ludwig holds the party at a bar in Berlin, wanting to celebrate amongst his people instead of somewhere regal and distant. He’s not worried about being recognized, only high-ranking government officials know about him, about them, about what they are, Ludwig knows this. He wants to have a beer, or two, or more, with the people that make him who he is, to get a little tipsy, or drunk, or to blackout and just lose himself in that happiness, that victory that he hasn’t felt in a long time, and Alfred respects that.

Alfred arrives to see most invitees already present. Gilbert walks in a few moments after Alfred and immediately turns to crush him in a hug, which Alfred returns with a laugh, he’d always liked Gilbert. Then Gilbert hugs Feliciano, then Lovino, then Antonio, then Francis, and the rest of the room, without listening to complaints or protests. 

Gilbert gets to Elizabeta and dips her, then, grinning like a madman. kisses her. Whoops and whistles come from all around the room, except from Roderich. He quirks his mouth nervously at the scene, an expectant look on his face. Gilbert (he now has red lipstick smeared all over his mouth) pulls Elizabeta back up, who is quite flustered, but smiling all the same, and moves to Roderich’s side. Gilbert puts both hands on either side of Roderich’s face and kisses him just as sincerely as he kissed Elizabeta. Elizabeta joins the surrounding people in their continued cheering—she looks happy. On her finger is her old wedding band, which Roderich also appears to be wearing. On Gilbert’s finger seems to be something similar, but undoubtedly new. What can Alfred say? Eastern Europeans are weird. 

Someone yells to get a room and everyone settles down, keeping the bartender busy with their orders.

“Hola.”

“…Hi?” Out of anyone here, Antonio seemed the least likely to want to approach Alfred, yet here he is.

“I- Ah…” Antonio scratches his head. “I wanted to say- er, I wanted to apologize, even though I know this is a small, insignificant thing that you probably don’t even remember.” He pauses to laugh awkwardly, then looks decidedly panicked “Not insignificant! That is not what I meant. I meant, uh- simply that it may not have stuck with you and that it is only something that I remember, certainly not insignificant but perhaps not significant to you- Like I said, I’m not even sure that you remember, not to say that you have bad memory or that I can remember things better than you-“

“Tony.”

Antonio clears his throat and stands up taller. “I called you… un maricón.” Alfred reflects on the color of Antonio’s eyes and finds that he’s seen much prettier shades of green (one in particular comes to mind.)

“I remember.”

“Oh.” Antonio blinks. “Well, I’m sorry.”

Alfred smiles, just a little, because he can’t help it, because it’s in his personality, because maybe he wants to smile. “It’s okay man, we all had that puritan streak at some point.”

Alfred expects Antonio to roll with it, like he always does, but Antonio shakes his head. “No, that’s… not an excuse.” Antonio looks sheepish and he avoids Alfred’s eyes. “I was hypocritical, and for whatever reason, I couldn’t forget about it, so I needed to apologize.”

“It’s really alright dude, that was a long time ago, wind under the sails.”

“I also… wish for things to be different, changed from how they are currently.”

“What ‘things’?”

“I want you to know that we can be… friends, possibly?” Antonio adjusts his positioning but doesn’t look away from Alfred. “I’ve known you ever since you were un niño pequeño, watched you grow into an adult where all you wanted was your freedom. I sent supplies and munitions because I believed in you, and that belief hasn’t stopped.” Antonio seems sincere, then backtracks. “I mean, I don’t want to be allies, just so I am clear. But if you ever have an issue or problem and need a listening ear, I’m available.” Antonio’s smile shines and has Alfred smiling right back.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. Same goes for me, I’m here to talk if you need to.”

“Okay, good.” Then Antonio looks nervous, fidgety.

“Cool.” Antonio wants to say something, obviously. “You okay?”

“I’m in love with Lovino.” Ah, that’s right, Antonio did always have a tendency to overshare. 

Alfred sighs and levels with him. “I know.”

“Dios mío, that feels so good to say out loud.” Antonio sounds a little hysterical. “Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Antonio smiles wide at him, another smile that Alfred can’t help but return. “I’m going to confess.”

“That’s… actually a really good idea.”

“You should confess, too.”

Alfred’s smile drops from his face, his hands clench at his sides. “Sure.”

Antonio pats his shoulder in a companionable way and leaves him alone to his barstool and whiskey. Arthur sits near the end of the bar with Francis and Matthieu, as usual. Alfred walks out the front door, walks away, like he always does.

Smoke drifts through the air, makes Alfred a little warmer, but cigarettes never last, the warmth never lasts (ever.)

“That’s a nasty habit.” Alfred’s heard that before.

“Yeah, it is.” Alfred can think of worse nasty habits (Ivan, heroin, pretending that his feelings are anything other than what they really are.)

Arthur plucks the cigarette from Alfred’s hands, takes a long drag, then hands it back. “They’re so handsy, the three of them.”

“I’m glad they’re happy.”

“Well of course, me too, I just so despise PDA.”

Alfred turns his head to look at Arthur.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s awkward, it’s impolite, it’s not something that should be done in public, all of that kissing and touching.” All of that kissing and touching.

“You’re really an old man.” Alfred smiles and he can feel it in his chest, can feel the fucking icicles hanging off of his lungs.

Arthur laughs and it sounds like every fear he’s kept inside for centuries. “Maybe I’m just jealous.” Just jealous. 

“Hmm.”

They pass the cigarette a couple times.

“During the last world conference, Francis got on my nerves, and I was snappy with you for asking what he said.” Arthur looks somewhere into the street, maybe reading the sign of a village shoppe. “I’m sorry about that.”

Alfred shrugs. “You gonna tell me what Francis said, now?”

Arthur laughs. “Yes, it’s actually quite funny, I’m not sure why I was so defensive. I suppose I’m rather prudish.” Arthur catches Alfred’s eye, smiles at him, then looks away again. “He asked if I was ever going to ‘steal you’ from Ivan.”

Alfred cringes, looks at Arthur to see what he could possibly say next.

“To follow through with my prudishness, I told him to suck my dick.” Alfred laughs, an honest laugh that he doesn’t feel often enough.

Arthur laughs too, but quiets quickly. “It got out of hand from there.” Arthur meets Alfred’s eyes slowly, scared to frighten a skittish animal. “Please don’t take offense as I mean none, but what happened between you and Ivan?”

Alfred shifts on his feet. “We were… a thing, I guess.”

“And now you’re not?”

Alfred looks him in the eyes. “No.”

“So I don’t have to steal you from him after all.” Arthur’s voice is joking and light but Alfred’s chest is being crushed and Arthur’s arm brushes against his own every couple of seconds.

Alfred grins at Arthur. “Yeah, ha, relieved of duty.” He finishes his sentence with a chuckle and a pang in his heart, but it feels so easy, so right to joke like this with Arthur.

“Does that mean that you’re free for the taking?” 

“Darlin’, I’m not that easy.”

“Well, at least let me know when you need to be stolen again, will you?”

“Of course.”

Arthur smiles at him in a way that Alfred’s never seen on him before and it makes something in his chest twist and something in his hands shake. Arthur takes one of Alfred’s hands in his own, holds it until the shaking calms, looks him in the eyes with that same fucking look, the one that he’s been wearing every so often since the Paris Peace Conference and he’s more beautiful than Alfred could ever take in with his own impaired vision so Alfred closes his stupid eyes and kisses him, (what else can he do?) then kisses him again, and again, and again, until fingers scrape his scalp and his hands grasp at Arthur’s waist and Alfred can’t even begin to remember what cold feels like anymore. His cigarette butt drops to the cold cement, it really is a nasty habit, maybe he won’t do it anymore.

Experienced hands fumble from disuse and it’s everything that Alfred’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever needed, everything that he’s dreamed on lonely, desperate nights, it’s right in front of him and Alfred can feel his skin burning, his mouth on fire, his mind racing but only able to focus on one word: Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

Arthur’s hands trail down Alfred’s chest, his tongue in Alfred’s mouth. Arthur brings a hand to Alfred’s neck, just to hold his jaw or maybe map out his cheekbones, but it triggers something, something bad, something ugly, some sort of disgusting reaction that has Alfred stumbling back, putting space between him and Arthur. He knows those cold hands, those cold hands on his neck, bruising on his hips, splotches of blue and purple on his arms; always something that he asked for (begged for), agreed to (pleaded), so why is his heart racing (weak)? Why does he want to run (pathetic)?

“Al?”

And there’s what brings Alfred back, makes his eyes focus and slows his breathing, because that’s something that Ivan would never call him, especially not with that concerned tone, not with those wide eyes.

“Sorry.”

“…Sorry?”

Alfred knows what Arthur’s asking. He’s asking if Alfred is apologizing for backing away or for getting close in the first place. He’s asking if Alfred regrets kissing him, and how is Alfred supposed to clarify what he means if even he doesn’t know what he means? (He knows exactly what he means.) How is he supposed to relay his feelings if he isn’t sure of what he’s feeling? (He knows exactly what he’s feeling and he’s going to walk away, like he does every time.) 

It’s all too much and he needs the panic in his chest to go away.

“Yeah, sorry.” 

A wall falls, ironic considering what they’re supposed to be celebrating here. Arthur’s eyes gleam like the plastic on a child’s doll house and Alfred gets the feeling that out of a life forged by bad decisions, this may prove to be his worst yet.

“Me too.” Arthur walks back inside. 

Alfred presses the back of his hand to his lips, bites back a the nausea that he didn’t know was there, feels the wind numb his fingertips. He remembers cold again. He pulls out another cigarette; those nasty habits always seemed to work before (always seemed to keep him safe.)

October 3rd, 1990, East and West Germany are reunited as one country. Ludwig throws another party, Alfred doesn’t attend, only sends a letter with his sincerest apologies and most heartfelt congratulations. 

July 1st, 1991, the Warsaw Pact ends, communist countries no longer stand together. Alfred should be celebrating, should be happy that an enemy of his now stands alone, but he’s not celebrating, he’s not happy, he’s not even sure that he has an enemy anymore. He’s not sure of a lot, these days.

Arthur hasn’t spoken to Alfred. He hasn’t visited once, which Alfred had expected, but it hurts and Alfred hates that it hurts. Alfred hates that this has the ability to get under his skin, that Arthur has the ability to get under his skin, that even though Alfred is the one that pushed away, he can’t bring himself to face Arthur. Alfred hates that he can’t exhibit more self-control or talk about his feelings without immediately moving to keep everyone at arm’s length, hates that he can’t pick up the fucking phone and tell Arthur what he needs to hear, what Alfred knows is true. But those words, that statement, one sentence, could break him, break them, could take the decades of built-up trust and smash it into dust, betrayal. Or, they could be happy. Is it worth it? (Who knows?)

July 31st, 1991, START, The Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty, is signed by the US and the Soviet Union. A letter comes in the mail, which means that whoever sent it did not want to speak to Alfred in person, didn’t want to hear his voice or deal with what Alfred might say.

Dear Alfred,

I’d like to apologize. I was not aware of your emotions and I should not have jumped to conclusions about what you wanted. I understand that you are most likely going through turmoil and I would much rather be someone that you can talk to as opposed to someone that you avoid. Please know that I regret my actions and that I am aware of my unfairness in expecting more. Hopefully, we can resume our friendship, as I appreciated our time spent together. 

Despite this, and how much I wish to apologize, I cannot find it in myself to do so. Congratulations on your newly found peace with Ivan. 

Sincerely, Arthur

December 25th, 1991, Gorbachev resigns. On December 26th, Russia recognizes the end of the Soviet Union, formally. Again, Alfred should be celebrating—he doesn’t. He writes back a letter to Arthur that’s more of a note.

Dear Arthur, 

Please anticipate my arrival on the 31st.

Alfred

Alfred decides to face his fear. Having fear, that’s a new concept. No. It’s not new, Alfred’s been afraid all his life, it’s just that it was hard to admit, that it’s still hard to admit. Facing the fear, that’s an even newer concept.

December 31, 1991, Alfred’s plane arrives in London, England, the United Kingdom, at 8:00pm. Alfred knows that Arthur will be pissed at him arriving so late, can almost smiles at the thought of his scowling. 

Alfred has the words in his head, hundreds or even thousands of them that could all be used to describe what he’s feeling, but none of them seem right, none of them fit, are able to portray exactly what he wants them to portray. None of his phrases or sentences are perfect and it’s frustrating because that’s exactly what Arthur deserves: perfect. It’s surprisingly not terrifying to come to that conclusion which in itself is terrifying and Alfred has no choice but to deal with it, all of the terror and non-terror that he’s carrying. Something cowardly inside of him insists that this is a bad idea, that he should turn around before he gets hurt, wounded, before it’s too late and he has to deal with the consequences for being foolish, soft. Alfred nails a cab before he can think about it more.

They drive on the left side of the road and it feels off, Alfred feels off. His heart is beating fast and each passing thought hits him in the face, drains the confidence from his smile and the charisma from his speech. It becomes abundantly clear that Alfred has no clue what he’s doing or what he’s going to say, but he’s come this far and damn it all to hell if he’s ever given up on single fucking thing in his whole life. 

Ivan, perhaps he’d given up on Ivan, but perhaps he’s alright with that. Although, with Ivan, he wouldn’t have to worry about feelings, there was no love between them and they knew that, every exchange was empty, hateful, but there were no strings, no chains attaching Alfred to Ivan. But then again, the idea of being attached to Arthur isn’t unappealing.

“We’re here.” The cabby speaks with a heavy English accent. Alfred pays him much more than he needs to and the cabby thanks him incredulously but Alfred’s already out of the car. The air outside is freezing, biting at Alfred’s exposed skin.

There’s a gate, of course, because Arthur is someone of importance, which is something that no one has to explain to Alfred. Alfred presses the buzzer and waits. Almost a minute passes and Alfred begins to seriously consider scaling the fence, but the gate swings open. Alfred walks into the estate, straight up to the front steps.

The doors don’t open, which means that Arthur is waiting for him to knock, or maybe hoping that he doesn’t knock. The air is frigid and the wind causes goosebumps on Alfred’s skin, he considers taking out a cigarette, using that temporary warmth that’s always gotten him through the day before, before this thing with Arthur. He lived a life in the dark, got used to it, his eyes were able to adjust eventually and despite the lack of light he could see, he could make do. Arthur has been trying to show him the sun, the moon reflecting on the crests of waves, candles that make shadows on walls, fireflies that light up entire forests, bonfires that friends sit around to share stories, and when Alfred finally let him, he found that he could no longer go back to the pitch black, he found that he could no longer see.

Alfred knocks, the door opens, and Alfred can see again.

“Hello.”

“Hey.”

“It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

Alfred could smile in any other situation, but not now, not with his head about to burst. “Yeah, sorry.”

Arthur’s eyes are trained on Alfred’s. They’re beautiful, protected, tired like they so often are.

“Why are you here?”

It’s cold, reserved, not angry, but still cold, so unfamiliar, as if Alfred were a stranger, a wanderer that happened upon his doorstep. It hurts, Alfred has to force himself to not look away, to not slink back to the cab and ride home and forget that this ever happened, forget that they ever happened, forget himself and be safe, without this unknown danger. Something about Arthur’s face, something about the sound of his voice, makes him stay, makes him want to stay.

“I… wanted to see you.”

Arthur breathes in deep, as if there’s a pain in his chest he’s trying to avoid. “Well, here I am.” 

“Yeah, there you are.” 

“Glad I could grant your wish.” Arthur moves to close the door, Alfred catches it and puts himself in the doorway. 

“Can we talk?”

Arthur sighs. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me, but if it’s an apology, I already told you-“

“I love you.” 

There it is, out in the open, out where any wild animal can take a bite out of it and rip Alfred straight open, right in half, split him in two and leave him in pieces, scraps for the stray dogs to pick at. And yet, despite this vulnerability, he’s free. Arthur isn’t responding.

“I’m in love with you, I’m sorry it took me so long to realize.” Arthur doesn’t say anything and Alfred thinks that maybe that’s not what he wanted to hear, maybe he isn’t interested. 

“Oh.” 

It’s a gun being shot, a throwing knife finding its mark, a fucking bolt of lightning and the shock of it, of this all-encompassing feeling, nearly brings Alfred to his knees. Alfred can hear every worried thought taunting him, I told you so, I told you so, and this is exactly what he was afraid of, this pain, this overwhelming rejection that he could’ve avoided if he’d just kept his stupid feelings locked up. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought- I uh, I’m sorry, I’ll, just go.” Alfred turns around, wonders if he has enough money on him for another plane ticket, wonders if it’s normal for him to be breathing this fast or if he’s actually hyperventilating, Arthur grabs his wrist.

“Al.” Alfred turns back to Arthur, Arthur kisses him, quick, but convincing. “You absolute dumbass.” His hands on Alfred’s face, Arthur says, “I love you, too.”

Arthur loves him. Arthur loves him back. Arthur just kissed him and he loves him back. Alfred feels something wet slide down his face and very distinctly realizes that he’s crying. Alfred hasn’t cried since he was a little boy, unable to take care of himself and unable to understand why people left, why no one would ever stay with him. Ice thawing out, flowers blooming, winter turning into spring, nothing can do justice to the warmth in Alfred’s chest, the joy that lets a sob escape his mouth, the shimmering feeling he gets as Arthur brushes away a tear with his thumb, moves his hair out of his eyes. 

Every memory, every night spent talking about their greatest regrets, every laugh from every dumb joke that they exchanged, every small touch, hints at wanting more, at wanting so much more, it all shines bright, it all leads right to now, where they are, now. 

“I love you.” Alfred says it again, whispers it, like the revered words they are.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry for walking away.”

“I know, love.”

Alfred kisses Arthur again and it’s gross because he’s crying, but it’s wonderful because it’s Arthur, Arthur who’s kissing back, who loves him, who’s warm, so, so warm compared to the cold, cold air from the still-open front door that neither of them care about, he’s so, so warm compared to the cold, cold of Alfred’s past, the cold of both of their pasts. 

The night air is cold and the ground is damp, what else could he expect from England?

**Author's Note:**

> sources:
> 
> http://www.history.com/topihttps://www.telegraph.co.uk/history/cs/world-war-ii/d-day
> 
> world-war-two/10878674/D-Day-6th-June-1944-as-it-happened-live.html
> 
> https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/ap-us-history/period-7/apush-age-of-empire/a/the-spanish-american-war
> 
> https://www.historyonthenet.com/the-cold-war-timeline-2/
> 
> http://www.rsdb.org/race/french
> 
> https://canpoetry.library.utoronto.ca/scott_fr/poem4.htm
> 
> https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/connecting-britain/first-public-transatlantic-phone-service/amp/


End file.
